Chapter 11: Silver

I don't remember driving there.

I remember Myra in the passenger seat with her hand braced on the dash, and Roddy's headlights jumping in my mirror behind us.

The black Ford sat on the shoulder past the second bridge, exactly as the tow driver said.

The engine was running, the door was open, and the dome light was on.

The old wolf stood back from it with his cap in his hands.

I leaned into the cab.

There was blood on the seat and a smear of it on the steering wheel.

There was a hole in the driver's window, small and neat, with a spiderweb of cracks around it.

And there was silver, a smell that made my eyes water and my skin crawl.

"Hay," Myra said behind me. "Don't touch the glass."

I wasn't touching anything. I was breathing.

I smelled cedar, engine oil, cold mountain water and blood.

It went out the door, across the road and over the guardrail, down toward the river.

"Stay with the truck," I told Myra. "Nobody touches it."

"Hayley, wait for Roddy."

I was already over the rail.

The canyon wall drops steep there, scrub oak and loose granite all the way to the water.

I went down it half sliding, grabbing branches, my firesuit boots skidding on the rock.

The scent was strong. He'd been bleeding hard.

There had been a second smell up on the road, where he'd gone over the rail.

It was gun oil and sweat and a man's hair grease.

It stopped at the rail. Whoever it was hadn't followed him down.

The river got louder.

I knew where I was before I saw it.

I knew the shape of the rocks against the sky. I knew the smell of the willow on the far bank.

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